ghost tornado 

my father told the story of death
& how he visited my grandfather
at the house on noble street.
shutters banging & turning into geese wings. 
the trees that bent into jaw bones.
chickens in the yard, running 
towards their red coop. the tornado touched down
& followed the railroad tracks in lyons.
plucked rooves from nearby houses.
angels' faces torn off & turned into grey clouds.
sometimes, as a child, i would watch
the house remember this. it came on dark nights
& when my blood poured out through
a memory on my tongue. each fissure
is a rope thrown down the throat
of a ghost. the phantom of the tornado 
visiting without any teeth. without any
of the rattling. just returning to say,
"you begged." i am often mistaken
for my father or my grandfather by spirits.
i do not correct them. i try to see if i can 
live in a way that heals the tributaries 
we share. once though, the tornado came
with all of her fury. all the pictures fell 
off the walls of my bedroom. i begged just like
my grandfather who thought death
was coming for him. who thought
the world was ending. maybe the world
was ending. has already ended. will end again.
i asked the tornado, "what have you come for?"
&, to my surprise, she spoke to me. she said,
"i have come for your genders 
i need all of them to rest." i told her
i do not know how to give something
written into me, away.